


wish granted

by Anonymous



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Bruce makes a huge mistake, Death Wish, Depressed Dick Grayson, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Hurt Dick Grayson, Messy Thoughts, Secrets, Suicidal Thoughts, but Dick doesn’t die, psychotic episode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:40:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26851579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: After Jason dies, Bruce tells Dick that he wishes Dick had been the one who died. Little does Bruce know that some wishes may become true if you say them aloud.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne
Comments: 12
Kudos: 173
Collections: Fanfic Anonymous





	wish granted

* * *

But if I may be forgotten, if your memory refuses to remember me –– at least, would you bury my body at home? 

* * *

  
Dick should have known that that Sunday was fated to be a terrible day. Since the moment he woke up all seemed to be wrong. There had been no coffee and no hot water in his apartment. And when he had gone to the store, he realized he had forgotten his credit card and when he had come back to his apartment, he remembered another thing he forgot: the key. 

Yes, it had been a bad day since the start and nothing had indicated that things had a chance to improve.

So when Dick heard the incoming call and he recognized the contact number as Wayne Manor, he should have known better than to answer. 

All this time, Dick had been in denial, he hadn’t come to terms yet with the fact that he lacked a sense of self-preservation. All his friends and therapists were right, Dick didn’t care enough to live. If he did, why did he answered that call? 

Maybe Dick deserved to die abandoned, bleeding out in a warehouse, he had brought this upon himself because that morning, he had been under no obligation to answer that call.   
  
  


* * *

Haven’t you heard? My blood is made of honey and cinnamon. So sweet, it doesn’t run through my veins at all. 

* * *

  
  
It had been Alfred on the other side of the line. Nice, polite and attentive Alfred. How could Dick say no to him? What Bruce had said, what Bruce had wished––“It was your fault, you made the Joker angry––he didn’t want to kill Jason, he wanted to kill you––the one who died––it was your place to die.”

It didn’t matter anymore. Alfred had called for help and Dick had said yes. 

Alfred explained to him that: “Master Bruce hasn’t given signs of being alive for two days, I think he was kidnapped, please, Master Richard, come back to Gotham and find him.”

* * *

If I’m the sacrifice, would you forgive me in death? The blood doesn’t run for no reason. But you, would you feel better watching me bleed?

* * *

  
  
That was how Dick had ended up in such a compromised situation. He had searched for Batman everywhere and for his bad luck, he had found him in the hands of Two-Face. The villain who should have ended with Dick’s life and saved him from the pathetic years that came after. He should have––all these years being a nuisance to Bruce, all these lost years being nothing but trouble. He shouldn’t hadn’t survived Two–Face’s beating.

* * *

When I’m gone, would you remember the sound of my voice?   
When I’m dead, would you take me home? 

* * *

  
  
What he did right during all the years being trained by Bruce, he had learnt to rescue a hostage with expert precision, in record time. And if this were the last time he would see his former guardian, Dick would make it count for good. 

Alfred had been the one who called for his help. Bruce didn’t call, Bruce would never call someone like him. Instead, Dick was sure that Bruce would forbid Alfred to ever calling him again. But it was okay for the next time Alfred––anyone––called, there would be no one to answer. And if Dick were right, then he had no choice but to make this last time the best of all the occasions.

* * *

Performance of the dead doesn’t make sense. Nobody pays a ticket to see the anonymous dead ones.  
We have no name, don’t you remember? The forgotten ones have no name.

* * *

  
  
Better than all his performances, Dick rescued Bruce in the name of art. It wasn’t the job for a vigilante, this wasn’t Nightwing’s job, so he took off his mask and let it burned with the warehouse. 

“Nightwing––What are you doing?” He heard Bruce, Batman––whoever that man was––talked.

 _“I’m saving your life,”_ Dick replied on his mind. It was hopeless to use his voice, he would lose his breath, he would lose the little time he had left. 

“Nightwing!!!” Bruce didn’t stop screaming, why was he screaming? Bruce was bleeding and he needed to save his strength.

“Your mask––have you gone insane? Dick, I need you to wear your mask, find it now! Are you listening, Dick?”

* * *

But my mother was right, the dead ones don’t listen to the living ones. It’s unnatural.

* * *

  
  
The amount of strength it took to carry Bruce to the front door was something Dick hadn’t know he had it in himself. Yet he found a place to summon all required force to carry the alive one with his arms. 

And then he called Alfred––he was almost done––he called Alfred and as infallible as always, Alfred was already on his way to the place Dick had told him. The old butler––the friend he did trust, the one who was considered part of his family, unlike Dick––always faithful, he would arrive fast and take Bruce to a safe place, far from the crime scene.   
  
It was all good, all the pieces coming together. Bruce would be fine and Dick would take his place––where he truly belonged––with the dead.

And when Dick felt a hand on his leg, squeezing and asking for his attention. He heard him said “Dick, sit down, you––are you tired?” but it didn’t make sense, dead people don’t get tired. 

* * *

Haven’t you heard that the dead ones have no voice? Has no one told him that we are the dead ones? 

* * *

  
  
Something was wrong. He felt real but it was wrong for he wasn’t real anymore.

Dick stared at his own gloved hands, they were tainted with dirt and blood. And the sounds surrounding him made no sense. _Dead people don’t listen, why was he listening?_ The oxygen was nearly tangible on his lungs. _The dead don’t breathe._

“Dick, you are bleeding too, sit down. Alfred will be here in a few minutes,” the voice talking seemed concerned, why was that man so worried anyway? Dead people, they don’t––

“We don’t bleed.”

And as if magic had commanded him, Dick turned his back on the man, who begged him to stay, and walked back into the burning warehouse. He was going to die and he would be coming home. He would take his place with the dead and he would make this alright again. 

_“To make it alright... if the fated one doesn’t take his place and the victim dies, then what happens if the fated one finally dies... does the victim comes back?”_

The place burned to ashes...

_“Will he come back from death?”_

Burning explosions around Dick as Clark shielded his body... 

_“Is Jason breathing again? Is he breathing? Is he here yet?”_

But Dick opened his eyes again as the Sun hid through the horizon. 

_“No, he can’t breath if I breath.”_

“Stay with me, don’t die on me, Dick.” And Dick thought it tasted so bittersweet of Clark to ask him to live. A God wasn’t one to ask a mortal to live because Dick was the fated one to die. 

_“It is my place to die––He said I should be dead, he said and I––am I dead?”_

* * *

When you close your eyes, you see nothing. If you don’t breath, it feels like nothing.   
The nothingness––death––meets irrelevance––you––at last. 

* * *

  
  


**Three weeks later...**

The first thing Dick noticed when he woke up was that his eyes ached and his mouth felt like dried sand. He could barely moved, his limbs denied him reaction. 

“Hey there, take it easy,” Dick recognized the voice, it was hard to forget Bruce’s tenor. But it didn’t explain why he was lethargic and why his vision couldn’t focus. “I can’t, my eyes, I can’t,” Dick panicked, taking one of his hands to touch his eyes. The movement was so slow, everything felt slow, this wasn’t right.

“No, no, what’s happening?” Dick didn’t remember a thing. The place, it smelled like a hospital and his body felt weak and wrecked, so he had to be injured. _Why can I remember?_ but Bruce was there––Bruce was his dad, was he still his dad?––Bruce was his safety blanket, if Bruce was here with him, it meant safety.

_I am safe, right?_

“Dick, slow down, the doctor will be here in a moment to check you,” Bruce said and Dick believed the well-meaning behind intentions behind his word. Though the feelings of anxiety and danger didn’t subside.

“Here, drink some water,” Bruce took a glass of water from the nightstand and Dick followed him with his gaze, trying too hard too focus without making his headache worse. However, he couldn’t drink it. He didn’t remember why but there was a good why that Dick had forgotten. He couldn’t trust him...

“It’s just water, Dick,” Bruce tried again pushing the glass to Dick’s lips but Dick turned his head to the other side. He was thirsty and hungry, dizzy and dead, he felt like a living corpse and not in the fashionable way of zombies. 

_Dead... I was dead? Was I?_

“What happened to me? Why am I here?” Dick stares at Bruce’s blurry face and he saw brought to see his lips hesitation. No practiced answer, no two steps ahead of him. What an uncommon reaction for Bruce Wayne. 

“You don’t remember.” It wasn’t a question. At least, they agreed on something.

“Care to explain? Please?” Dick wasn’t expecting a clear answer for Bruce was a man of many secrets. It was all fine until the secrets involved him.

“We’ll talk later, Dickie, let’s focus on your recovery,” Bruce smiled––relieved?––and petted Dick’s hair with a soft touch that Dick hadn’t felt in years. 

“No, you should tell me now,” Dick felt his heart racing, scared with the possibility that Bruce would change his mind and they wouldn’t talk about it at all. It was nothing new but he was terrified.

Blamed it on the nights he spent alone in New York and Blüdhaven alone, swimming in self-loathing thoughts after the many fights Bruce and he had. Blamed it on the lack of communication or the fact that when they talked, Bruce didn’t mind shattering Dick with his words. Blamed it on... it clicked. He didn’t remember what but there was something else, there had to be something else. 

“Bruce...” Dick’s eyes, vulnerable and soft, pleaded for Bruce to not to lie to him again. 

For a moment, the pinch on his arm alarmed him until he recognized the sedative, Batman branded. “Don’t, sweetheart––It’s alright, you are you going to be fine.”

As his eyes closed eyes again, Dick couldn’t complain. It didn’t seem right but he could have hope––hope for the hopeless––that somehow Bruce wasn’t lying and he was going to be alright.


End file.
